by Joe Corso
Also by Joe Corso
The Time Portal
The Old Man and the King
The Starlight Club I
The Starlight Club II
The Starlight Club III
The Revenge of John W
The Starlight Club III
By Joe Corso
The Starlight Club III
Joe Corso
Copyright 2012 by Joe Corso
Published by
Black Horse Publishing
Cover Art by Marina Shipova
Edited by Sherry Thomas
Formatting by BZHercules.com
Black Horse Publishing
www.blackhorsepublishing.com
ISBN: 978-0-578-11004-2
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.
All Rights Reserved.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Epilogue
Prologue
He thought for what seemed an interminable amount of time about what to do. Finally, Bobby decided he would leave the warmth of the Florida sun to spend the Christmas holidays with his daughter and her family in their home, in the snowy woods of upscale Darien, Connecticut. His mind made up, his thoughts began to wander about randomly, recalling moments here and there of youthful days long past.
He was born Robert Valentine in Astoria General Hospital and grew up in Jackson Heights. His family moved from Queens to a home in Massapequa, Long Island. It was their first home and when Bobby asked his father why he bought it, he said, “Because she always dreamed of it. One day after seeing a model for this particular split level home, she asked if we could afford it. Your mother hardly ever asked for anything and that day, when I looked into her eyes, I saw how much it meant to her, so . . . I borrowed some money from the Municipal Credit Union, scraped up the rest for the down payment and I bought it for her.”
Bobby loved that story.
Bobby lived with his parents in their new home until he reached the ripe old age of eighteen. He was a man now and it was time for his own apartment. In Bobby’s neighborhood, everyone knew someone who knew someone else, and as luck would have it, a friend’s grandfather had just completed renovating a three family house he owned on Forty–First Avenue in Corona, Queens. The grandfather had converted the basement into a small comfortable apartment. Bobby jumped at the chance to have his own place – a place that his steady Manhattan butcher store salary could provide.
Bobby recalled his youth and how the minutes seemed to drag by so slowly back then. He had to laugh because these days time passed by so fast that it hardly seemed worth the effort to take down the Christmas tree. He thought a lot about time and how fast it was passing and he equated it to a formula he created in his mind. “Time + age = accelerated aging.” It was very real to Bobby.
Bobby could no longer handle the cold as he did when he was young. In the late 1950’s and 60’s, when working as a butcher in the ice boxes of Ben Zeger in the Fourteenth Street Meat markets in Manhattan, he went to work bundled in three layers of clothing to stave off the cold. His morning coffee, back then, came with three shots of rye in the hopes that the liquor could generate some liquid fire, replacing the warmth that the cold freezers stripped away with each passing minute. That’s where he learned always to cover his head. That was dangerous. The head is where most of the heat escaped so Bobby had his faithful black knit wool cap that was part of his everyday work wardrobe.
That was then. Now, there were other decisions to make in life, and yet again, they revolved around hot and cold.
Retirement was now beckoning and Bobby couldn’t wait to leave the brutal New York winter for warm weather year round. Texas came to mind. He had visited Arizona a few times and loved it there, but no, he would settle on the good old Sunshine State –
Florida. Location was the primary reason. Located on the east coast, it was much closer to his daughter and grandchildren. There were other, more minor reasons, for leaving New York. Queens had changed. He had grown up there, married there, and worked there – eventually as a meat deliverer to The Starlight Club – but the Queens he knew no longer existed, gone like a dream. The Loews Plaza movie theatre now had Middle Eastern letters on the marquee and it angered him that he couldn’t make out what the hell it was saying, but he knew one thing . . . you’d have to drag him chain bound to see the movie that was playing there. The Corona Theatre was now a collection of stores – the Jackson Theatre was gone and all the landmarks of his youth had all either disappeared or nowhere vaguely resembled themselves. When those things all changed, it was a clear sign for him to start anew. There was nothing left for Bobby in New York.
One of the first people Bobby saw, upon his arrival in Florida, was Dr. Tresti. Dr. Tresti didn’t think of his medical profession so much as a business, like other physicians. He was one of those doctors who truly cared. He took great personal interest in the health of each of his patients. Once during a routine visit, he told Bobby, “You’ll see very few of my patients in the hospital. I do my best to see to that.” Dr. Tresti was the one who suggested that Bobby start exercising, walking, to help the circulation in his legs.
Bobby took his doctor’s advice and began a routine of walking the winding streets of his development every day, without fail. His two mile route followed a pattern through the development and along the canal that coursed alongside the small community where he lived. Since he was a little boy, he had loved palm trees. They conjured up images of tropical islands, beautiful women – South Pacific style – and pirates and buried treasure. While most of the others in his community shunned the sun, he loved his daily dose of Vitamin D, especially after all those years spent in a refrigerator. Hot was better than cold, no doubt about that. His tan was just another byproduct of his daily regimen – always careful to sunscreen himself even though his Italian blood provided him some automatic layer of protection in his mind. Now, every afternoon at three pm, as he relaxed in his recliner, he would recall those cold winters and smile at his escape. God had put him here in Florida and he vowed he would never make another trip north during the winter months. But . . . this year was an exception.
Truth be told, Bobby was lonely. He missed his daughter and grandchildren. The family, like most, would stay at home and celebrate Christmas by attend
ing church, and opening presents around the tree. Bobby would have to go to them and that was fine.
Before he could change his mind, Bobby picked up his phone and called his daughter Lynn to inform her that he would be driving up to spend the holidays. He would arrive the week before Christmas. This was happy news to Lynn. Every year, she had pleaded with him to head north for Christmas and New Year’s, but every year, Bobby politely refused. He made his presence known, though by sending plenty of neatly wrapped Christmas packages loaded with some pretty pricey contents.
Now that Bobby was physically going to be there, he could load the car with his surprises and take them along for the ride and so he spent an entire day shopping at the Sawgrass Mills Outlets in Sunrise, Florida, a shopper’s paradise. In the Tumi store, he found a black leather attaché case for Ted, his attorney son-in-law. There was the Coach outlet, where he eyed a classic design that screamed designer but thought twice about it, since women are funny when it comes to personal items, especially handbags. His taste would most likely differ from that of his daughter’s. For the kids, he bought an assortment of toys and gadgets, the latest in kids’ electronics, and treated himself to lunch at the kids’ lunch haven, Rainforest Café. Still not finished, he left the mall and took the short drive along Flamingo Road to Best Buy where he purchased an Apple iPad which the boys could share. From there, he made his way to the Broward Mall, where he stopped into Mayor’s Jewelry and plucked a pair of diamond earrings for his daughter. Diamonds, he chuckled, were the universal language for women. Bobby didn’t know a woman alive who didn’t like diamonds. He learned a long time ago that these things couldn’t go to the grave with you, so he often wondered, why bother, but for his family, he’d spare no expense. No, the Egyptians may have buried their treasures with the dead, but heck, what use was all that money buried under a pile of dirt? He decided he’d buy her the earrings and if she didn’t like them, she could always take them to the Mayor’s in her local mall and trade them for something more to her liking. As for himself, he had little in the way of winter clothing so he visited a men’s shop and picked out a winter trench coat, three heavy winter shirts, and a button–down woolen sweater.
Back at home, Bobby pulled a suitcase from his spare bedroom closet, and although he wouldn’t leave for two weeks still, he filled it with everything he’d need. Bobby didn’t enjoy flying. This would be a nice, long road trip.
At five a.m., the alarm rang and Bobby ambled out of bed, excited at the thought of seeing his daughter and grandkids. He opened the trunk of the big Lincoln Town Car, already packed with Christmas gifts and his suitcase, and ran through a mental and physical checklist to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything.
Once on the road, the engine purred softly all the way to I-595 until he hit I-95 and began his straight run right up the coast to Connecticut. The beginning of the trip would be easy, but he wondered about the weather as he approached colder temperatures. By the time he’d hit Georgia, there would be a substantial drop. Every few hundred miles, he would stop and treat himself to a cup of coffee. The reason was twofold – to keep the blood circulating through his varicose veined legs and to infuse a steady stream of caffeine for alertness. Just two short years earlier, a blood clot in his left leg had nearly cost him his life. He was fine now, but when Bobby told his doctor of his impending trip up north, the doctor advised him, rather he ordered him, to stop often to stretch. In yesteryear, when he was much younger, he remembered making the fifteen hundred mile trip all by himself in two days, but now, at the tender elderly age of seventy–six, the old body just didn’t work the way it had back then. This trek would be three days with lots of stops in between.
Bobby arrived safely in Connecticut and after barely emptying his car, with the help of Lynn, Ted and the kids, the clouds opened up and snow fell for an entire day and night. As much as he loathed the cold, the Currier and Ives postcard–like scenery was worth it. It was sheer perfection – such a festive time of the year and a great time to be with his family. The traditions surrounding Christmas were always so much fun and watching Christmas through the eyes of kids was priceless.
Christmas Eve arrived and the children were awakened at midnight. Santa was kind. Blue, white, red, and green foiled packages covered the tree skirt. What joy to watch their eyes light up when they were handed their gifts to open – the expressions and excitement as they wondered what each new meticulously wrapped box might reveal. Kids were kids and Bobby’s grandkids were no different. All kids love toys and most kids want toys from their grandparents, not clothes. So Bobby always gave toys to the children and left any clothing for their parents to supply. It was wonderful to be with his family this time of the year. At his age, no one could predict if there would be a next year. No one.
Christmas and New Year’s Eve seemed to come and pass far too quickly and Lynn knew that soon her father would be leaving. Bobby was a staunch believer in what Ben Franklin had written in his Poor Richard’s Almanac, “Guests, like fish, begin to stink after three days.” He never overstayed his welcome. If he stayed, his daughter would most certainly dote on him. This would create a distraction from her husband and children so Bobby set about organizing himself for the long trip back south. But apparently Lynn, his daughter, had other ideas, at least in the short term.
The kids were in bed and Lynn’s husband Ted was in his office going over notes for a client he was representing in court the following day. Lynn offered her father a cup of espresso. He declined, knowing that he wouldn’t sleep if he ingested it this late in the evening, opting instead, for a small glass of Sambuca.
Moments later, Lynn emerged holding a small cordial glass in one hand and a full bottle of her father’s favorite – the sweet, anisette flavored liqueur that proudly occupied each Italian bar. She poured the clear liquid into the glass and handed it to him. Bobby leaned back into the recliner and slowly sipped the drink, savoring its strong, licorice flavor, his legs perched on the footrest and his head buried in the soft leather. Lynn asked if he was comfortable. Bobby smiled, knowing her next question. It was his daughter’s look, that same look. He knew it well.
“Dad, we don’t get too many moments anymore like these. I love your Starlight Club stories. Before you leave, let’s pick up where we left off last time. How’s that sound?”
Bobby smiled again. He was about to regale her with his stories even if she hadn’t asked. Like father, like daughter – an inexplicable synergy.
“Okay, I’ll tell you a little more about the club if you’d like,” Bobby answered. And he began.
“When I think back, it seemed to me that after Red’s adventure in Hollywood and the trouble he had with the Detroit mob that The Starlight Club’s best days were behind it. But . . . things settled down and it looked liked business as usual in Queens for Big Red and his boys. With all of the problems Red had at the time, he was sort of forced into becoming the manager for his young fighters, but he surprised himself because even as busy as he was, he found he enjoyed managing the kids. He booked the fights and they fought them, and they won them, and soon they found themselves rising in the rankings. Henry was the first to get a title shot and Gonzo was next. Swifty’s movie was a box office hit and by contract, he was obligated to make three more for Columbia Pictures. But it was winning the middleweight championship – that was what he wanted most, not the fame that Hollywood would give him. But that’s not the story I’m gonna tell you tonight. Tonight, we’ll discuss Moose and you’ll realize how loyal he was. We’ll talk more about Swifty another time.
Chapter One
With a little bit of interest and whole lot of concern, Big Red sat watching a game of shuffleboard being played in the front bar. Since the days of the Gallo–Profaci war, The Starlight Club had had two different bars – one for the Gallo boys and the other for the patrons. That was the result of Crazy Joey Gallo’s men being sent to stay at the club until the gang war ended. The presence of the Gallo men hanging around created a conflict
with Red’s regular customers. They weren’t used to seeing hard edged men like these guys stare at them. The Gallo guys eyed everybody up and down – just part of their street fighting instincts. Good for protection, bad for business. The bar business was a huge part of any restaurant and that first drink, while waiting for a table, was crucial. The bar, the bar crowd, and the bartender all set the tone for the evening. Red knew that. He solved that problem by converting an anteroom into a bar, separating it from the front bar, which in turn worked even more to his advantage because one, it brought his customers within closer walking distance to the dining room and two, they were within sniff shot of the culinary delights being dished up.
Red motioned for Tarzan.
“Keep your eye on the big guy playing against Bobby. He looks like one mean son–of–a bitch.”
“Yeah,” Tarzan answered. “He’s the shuffleboard champ of Ridgewood. His friends brokered a game between him and Bobby.”
“How’s Bobby holding up?” Red asked.
“He’s doing great, maybe a little too good,” Tarzan chuckled.
“Why? Whadda you mean?”
“Bobby’s not just beatin’ him – he’s humiliatin’ him,” Tarzan added.
“Yeah, I could see that from here,” Red answered. “That’s why I want you to keep your eye on him. Make sure Bobby’s okay.”
“Don’t worry, Red,” Tarzan said, “if anyone touches a hair on Bobby’s head, I’ll bury ‘em in the lot across the street.”
Red smiled. All the guys liked Bobby. The kid minded his own business and he showed a lot of respect when Jimmy the Hat was killed.
“Why don’t you kind of mosey over to the bar and make like you’re cleaning glasses or something?” Red added. “This way you’ll be closer to the action if anything happens.”
